


yishenah

by nykvos



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Genderswap, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Somnophilia, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 21:34:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20160427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nykvos/pseuds/nykvos
Summary: Aziraphale doesn't care for sleeping. Crowley, in fact, cares quite a lot.





	yishenah

She’s beautiful when she’s asleep, Crowley always found. She was like ripe fruit and picking that fruit was hardly a crime. What was a crime was leaving her so unsullied, untouched, especially when her pale skin practically begged him to grip until they bruise. 

They were in Constinopale when he first picked her—they had only started to become closer—behind a building. Aziraphale was usually good on not needing sleep but the exhaust of miracle making and running caught up to her and then she was leaning against Crowley, saying _ Oh, oh please do give me a minute. I feel...I feel a bit weary _. She was out like a light and Crowley settled her down against the building’s wall. After a minute instead of waking up, she started softly snoring. 

Crowley waits another minute, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, and she did not wake up. 

You could hardly blame him for slipping a hand up her thigh, followed quickly by his other. Next thing he knew, he had pushed her skirt up and saw the divine light, metaphorically speaking of course. 

After, sated, he damned the mess he made away but the guilt stuck. He waited with her leaning against his shoulder until she woke up. 

“Sleeping,” she said. “I don’t think I care for.”

The second time isn’t until Paris, perhaps a decade or so before the good ol’ head chopping business would start. Was an accidental run-in, Crowley had just finished whispering in a couple aristocratic ears (it was a beautiful day in Versailles after all, a common phrase said in the whole damnation business), and Aziraphale was—well, at the time Crowley hadn’t asked. 

“Oh, Crowley!” She says, her heels quickly clicking against the cobblestones as she approaches him. “What a delight. How are you, my friend?”

She was an absolute image. A wonderful cream coloured silk dress with gold trimmings and lace along her bodice and many many buttons. Crowley half wonders how she could walk with such a petticoat, the other half wonders how long would it take to take such an ensemble off. 

It’s later, when they find themselves in the seedier parts of Paris, does Aziraphale tell him of her newest joy. 

“A bookstore, ay?” He repeats. 

“Oh yes. In little Soho. The west end of London. It’s such a quaint little place and I’ve been needing somewhere to put my collection.”

“And how do you plan to go about the whole…” he waves his drink in the air like his point will appear in it. “..._ store _ part of book _ store _.”

She blinks, like she didn’t even think of that part of the plan. “I...well…”

“Really, Angel,” he admonishes. 

The growing flush looks delicious on her. She mumbles into her drink, a sweet rosé, that she’ll cross that bridge when she gets there. 

By the end of it, they’re both a decently inebriated but not enough so to stop anytime soon. It’s one of the rare times they return to Crowley’s instead of Aziraphale’s (most probably because Aziraphale’s is that unfortunate journey across the chanel and she would complain the whole time about leaving such a wonderful city) and drinking some more leads them to where they are now. 

She dozed off at some point when Crowley was camboding about what’s becoming of music these days. When he notices, he swallows. 

Her drink held loose in her hand, tipping to the floor the liquid threatening to spill out over the rim. Chin resting against her chest, slumped back in her chair. Her hairstyle must’ve come loose at some point, an intricate updo with ribbon and braids, because pale locks were out framing her face, making her cheeks look rounder, softer. She looked delicate. She looked ethereal. 

She looked vulnerable. 

Crowley finds himself stepping quietly toward her, at some point having taken off his dark lenses. 

Crowley never forgot Constinopale nor did he forget the guilt. Yet he carries her out of the chair and into his bed. She sleeps soundly against his chest. 

Turns out, it did take him some time to take that ensemble off (he can always damn those buttons back on anyways). And seating himself between her creamy thighs, he would smite himself if he had the power. Instead, he sunk himself deep within her and groans at the familiar and heavily missed tightness of her. 

“Oh _ fuck _.” 

Crowley feels like he’ll go mad. His hand travels from gripping the outside of her thigh to the top of her mound and thumbs a fat lip open to see those pink folds spread as he pushes his cock in her over and over again. He runs his thumb over those wet folds some more until he touches the place where they meet and he can’t help but shiver and move faster.

Crowley would like to imagine what sort of sounds she’d make. Perhaps she’d gasp and squeak, maybe even yelp from every particularly rough fuck. Maybe she’ll squirm beneath him, scratch him, pull him for _ more, more _ . What a fucking glutton she’d be, begging and praising of how good he is (“ _ Oh please--! Love, just more--! _”), how much more she wants, until the point she can only gasp and nod with urgency with each obscene squelch of her sopping wet cunt. His now erratic thrusts would slow just to savor the feeling when her cunt clenches down him.

He swears when he peaks and then he’s back in reality with his chest panting and to the hilt inside a passed out angel. 

The third time was when he couldn’t wait any longer. 

In the aftermath of that run in with nazis and where england became one church less, it was then where he let himself miss it. 

He expected her to chatter. Say something. Anything. Vaguely about the plans she’s assigned on, recount the tale of how she even got swept up in that mess, or maybe tell him all about each and every book he saved. Instead, she sits in the passenger seat of his bentley with the bookbag settled neatly in her lap and was silent. The thinking kind of silent. 

Crowley really wants her to talk but he’s no good at it either at the moment. So they drive through London in silence. 

Crowley really wants to know what she’s thinking. 

Crowley really wants her. 

It’s been some time since Paris and in the aftermath, he had dressed her back up and she woke up the next morning complaining of feeling weak. She thought sleep affected her corporation. Since then, she hasn’t slept in his company. If not in his company, then she probably didn’t sleep at all. 

He shifts in his seat. Crowley misses her. 

Call him a coward, pathetic, sick, call him anything, but demons _ want _ while angels make the point of _ not _. 

So in this moment he lets his powers raise and slither from him slowly in the bentley, invisible to the eye. By those tendrils of power, he feels her eyes grow heavier by the more she breathes in until she is fully asleep, slumped in the passenger seat and her hands still over the bookbag. He slows and stations the bentley off the side of a dark empty road and breathes out, his hands tight over the wheel. 

Then he snaps his fingers. 

In the back seat of the bentley, he has Aziraphale in his lap. Crowley steadies her with a hand on her back and the other pushing her skirt away to make room to unbuckle. He grinds up against the thin cotton of her panties as he opens his pants. Crowley could swear at the thick sensation over his clothed cock, his memory of her sweet cunt still fresh in his mind, and pulls it out too to rub the head up and down her covered damp slit.

He holds her tight against him, her face up against the crook of his neck. The soft slow breaths tickle at his nape as he pulls at her panties until they _ riiiip _ and he hisses at the electric contact of their flesh. 

She doesn’t stir when Crowley pushes her hips down and his own up. He almost wishes she did, as he sets a brutal pace to finish as quickly as possible, because Crowley won’t ever tell her. 

The bentley rocks and rocks and rocks.

**Author's Note:**

> [the live journal made me do it.](https://good-omens-kink.livejournal.com/1206.html?thread=105398#t105398)


End file.
